High Tension
by ronny-of-yore
Summary: After a certain incident with his brother, Sam's left wondering if there's anything he can do to fix things. However, Dean may or may not have made a decision. Good or bad, Sam's just going to have to see how things play out. Wincest


High Tension

It's been two weeks since they've seen each other. The only contact they've had by phone. Bobby's friend Toni had needed help with a hunt out in Polaro, Oregon—vamps—and Dean had volunteered. He'd pointedly said that he'd be enough backup for the group going and Sam hadn't pushed, because _things_ had happened between them that he knew Dean needed time to deal with on his own. The night before his brother had taken the nest job, they'd been stuck huddled together for warmth in a cave, in Ashford, Missouri, after a finished werewolf hunt that had left them stranded in a forest, in the middle of a blizzard.

Soaked to the bone with the Impala parked a good mile and a half away, they'd taken shelter for the night. Once they'd stripped off their wet clothes and Sam had wrapped around Dean's naked, shivering form, they hadn't exactly stayed cold for long. Not when the flask of whisky Dean had produced had been more than enough liquid courage for Sam to instigate what he'd yearned for for so many years as a horny, pubescent teen—even though he was a grown man now.

The surprise kiss was a passionate exchange, one that had set Sam's newly formed soul on fire. But, sadly, it had mostly been a one-sided affair and had ended just as abrupt as it had started. For Dean's senses had kicked in once he'd realized what was actually going on. Basically, Dean had pushed him away, both literally and figuratively. They'd spent the remainder of that night with their warm backs to each other, tension hanging thick and uneasy in the cold, damp air.

The next morning, Dean hadn't looked at Sam or said a damn word. He'd just put his cold yet thankfully dry clothes on and jumped at the chance to put some miles between them the moment he'd answered his phone and heard Bobby's question. So, now, two weeks to the day, Sam sits. He's sitting in the bar two miles down the road from Bobby's place in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. He's taking his mind off of things by slow sipping from a beer even though he's not usually a big drinker.

The only consolation Sam has is that Bobby hadn't questioned why he'd been left behind. Bobby just more or less moodily grumbled about having idjits around to get underneath his feet, but he'd set Sam up in the bedroom that has always become theirs whenever things had forced them to stay under his roof for a time. For that Sam was grateful.

He didn't feel like explaining that he'd fucked-up once again, made things worse between him and his brother by making old intentions known. They _were_ old. Sam hadn't felt like molesting Dean or getting molested by him since days before he'd gone off to college. Why he'd suddenly been blindsided by lust for his older brother that night, Sam still isn't quite certain. All that really matters is that it happened and now he can't take any of it back.

"Hey there, sweetie, need some company?"

Sam looks over to see a dark-haired beauty with crystal-blue eyes staring back at him. She's all creamy skin, eager smiles and sinful promises as she stands at his side, one slim arm resting on the counter near his thicker own. Roving eyes over her petite form, Sam'd been two seconds away from taking her up on her offer, thinking brooding by himself wasn't doing any favors in his obvious need to move on. However, suddenly looking over her shoulder, Sam doesn't really have time for her anymore. Not when his heart's in his throat from seeing Dean walking through the bar's open front door. "Sorry," he says, instantly changing his mind and no longer looking the girl's way, "looks like my company's just arrived."

The girl must have looked back toward the bar's entrance, because she's next saying, voice dripping pure honey, "Don't mind if your friend comes on over, sugar. Wouldn't mind having the both of you for company."

Sam can't help the ounce of irritation in his voice, because, right now, he strongly feels the woman's an unneeded hindrance. "Sorry. Kind of need to talk to him. Alone."

Sam barely notices the girl sucking her teeth and leaving him be, because, for two weeks, he's puttered around Bobby's place doing the odd job here and there with a knot of worry in his gut and a constant pain in his heart. Right now, he's only got eyes for his brother. Regrettably, though, Sam doesn't exactly know how to handle the new situation. Apparently, neither does Dean. They're both flicking their gazes away from each other as one moves forward and the other turns around, going back to staring at the many bottles of hard liquor lining the wall behind the bar.

Sam's heart beats a loud, solid cadence in his chest as his hands sweat in their place; he's got one palm on the bottle he's holding and the other idly laying face down on the counter. Suddenly, he's hearing the stool beside him being pulled back and feeling it being steadily occupied. He knows who it is without even looking. He recognizes that mix of generic soap, old spice, and aftershave, knows exactly who that particular heady smell belongs to.

"Hey," he hears Dean say in a gravelly voice that's all too casual to be anything but nervous.

"Hey," Sam echoes.

Sam's too antsy, too jumpy in his own skin; he can't even bring himself to turn and look his brother in the eye. So, he doesn't. He just sits there and listens as Dean speaks again with that same laid-back yet anxious tone, after catching the eye of the bartender and ordering himself a drink. "Bobby said you'd be here. Said you've been coming here an awful lot."

It's not the kind of small talk Sam wants to comment on, but he'll take it; its worlds apart from the silence that had riddled them since the morning after that fiery kiss. "Yep," he easily replies, feeling no shame in his honest words, "pretty much." Silence abounds for a moment or two as Dean obviously stalls in his response. But Sam's going to fill the quiet with a question of his own. After a sip of his beer, he asks, "So, how was the job?"

The bartender slides Dean his drink and, after taking a long pull and giving an appreciative hiss, Sam finally hears his answer. "No casualties. No trouble."

Sam slow nods and takes another sip of his beverage. They're soon lulled into an even longer stretch of silence that's not exactly comfortable. During this time, Sam counts Dean ordering and tossing back two shots of hard tequila to go along with two more ordered beers. He can't tell if Dean's gearing up for something or if he's just trying to forget. Either way, Sam's fingers on the hand—not absently taking swigs of his second drink—are nervously tap-tap-tapping the bar. He's trying not to fidget in his seat as the tension between them gets thicker and thicker.

They've had baggage and bad blood sitting between them before, but never like this. Sam feels that his fuck-up this time is on a whole new level and he doesn't know the first thing to do to go about fixing it. He's worried and rightfully so. They'd just gotten back to treating each other like honest to god brothers. But a part of Sam has never actually seen Dean as a mere blood relation.

In all honesty, his decision to go to college had partly been to distance himself from the messed-up object of his desire. Meeting Jessica had helped greatly in getting over his old infatuation. He'd finally known what it was like to wholeheartedly love a woman. Unfortunately, Jess has been a mere memory for years and Ruby hadn't helped much in the matter.

Even though Sam truthfully hadn't thought about Dean in a sexual way in years, something about that cold, blustery night—bare chest pressed up against Dean's naked back and eager cock nestled against his brother's nicely muscled ass—had triggered old wants and sinful desires. During the following two weeks on his own, Sam had also come to the unfortunate realization that his relapse wasn't temporary in the slightest. Their interrupted kiss had been enough fuel to heat up more than one jerk-off session before their current, impromptu reunion.

Nonetheless, Sam's willing to go back to repressing his urges if that's what it takes to get Dean to start talking to him and treating him like his brother again. With that thought in mind, Sam signals the bartender for another drink—his third. When the amber bottle is placed down in front of him, Sam feels a nudge to his shoulder and hears slightly slurred words in his ear. "S'that wise? One of us has to drive back, you know."

After an almost defiant sip of his drink, Sam's lips twitch up into a ghost of a smile. "That your way of saying I'm stuck taking care of you tonight?" His words are meant to be filled with humor, but his tone doesn't quite fit the job. Instead, it sounds like he's bitching when he doesn't mean to come off as cross. Sam blames it on his nerves, which are pretty much shot.

Dean's quiet at this. So, Sam forces himself to turn, to try and show his brother with a small grin that he doesn't mean any offence. However Sam's expression falters as he finally takes in the way Dean's looking at him. Besides being close—too close—with their shoulders almost touching, Dean's staring at him through heavy lashes and pupils blown wide from the drink. But it's not those glazed eyes of his that almost makes that thumping organ in Sam's chest want to stop.

It's the fact that there's something behind them, something hidden just below the surface of that steady stare. It's like Sam can feel a sudden electrical current running from them, one that's sparkling and crackling with a foreign energy that makes a part of Sam hope for things he knows he ought not. But, no matter what, Dean's not looking away and Sam's feeling grateful.

Slowly, Sam's eye-line lowers to Dean's lips as his brother unconsciously licks them wet. He barely even hears Dean's words as he watches that perfect mouth form a question. "If I asked … would you?"

The unexpected, sober tone catches Sam's attention, makes his eyes flick back up to his brother's. There's a heated challenge in Dean's stare and Sam's left steadily trying to recall what exactly he'd said.

_That your way of saying I'm stuck taking care of you tonight?_

_If I asked … would you?_

Sam's lungs freeze up in his chest as his brain internally stutters out question after question. _Is this…? Is Dean really…? Could he actually…? Is this actually happening?_ Sam has no answers; he's having a hard enough time making his head process anything beyond an awestruck _oh my god_in his mind. Even though he'd been determined to put his fucked-up desires on the backburner, Sam can't resist such an invitation—if that is indeed what it is. Because, if Dean honestly wants this and Sam thinks he must from the innuendo being thrown his way, Sam wants this. Good god, he wants this. So much so it hurts.

Regretfully, Sam must have taken too long to answer, because Dean's turning way and anxiously rubbing fingers along his temple—the sudden raised hand between them only half hiding his flushed features. "Never mind. Forget it. Jus' make like I never said—"

"Yes," Sam hastily interrupts, voice a strong, definitive tone. "Yeah, I would."

Dean froze the moment Sam had opened his mouth, but he's lowering his hand back to polished wood now. He doesn't look up, doesn't say anything for a moment; the two of them just simply sit there, two guys staring holes into their drinks. It isn't until the bartender comes by to ask if he can get either of them anything else that Dean speaks. "Naw. We're good. Thanks," he says for the both of them and then he's pulling out his wallet.

Sam takes the cue, starts laying down bills of his own as they move to stand. After pocketing his wallet, Sam's looking up to see a pair of familiar keys dangling in his face. "Uh, you're driving," Dean says, without actually looking his way. He's too busy staring at the bar's glass double doors. "S' only right since you should still be seein' one of me." After sharply turning his way, Sam's watching Dean finally looking up at him with a clear measure of scrutiny. "You _are_ seein' one of me right?"

Sam can't help himself. He grins as he takes the keys. "Yeah, Dean, only one of you."

"Better be," Dean murmurs moodily in return and then nods at the door. "Go on. Get your ass moving."

With that, Sam makes his way to the exit, feeling positive that his brother's right behind him. When he pushes through the glass doors and out into the night, he takes a deep breath of the cold air as he heads off toward the parked Impala with gravel crunching underfoot. Once inside the vehicle, he puts the keys into the ignition and turns it on as Dean slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door.

As his brother immediately goes to turn on the heater, Sam just sits there for a moment. He's pausing, because he's trying to think of where the hell they should actually go. He strongly feels that they can't go back to Bobby's. Not if they're going to do what he thinks—hopes—they're going to do. They might make too much noise and, in a way, it just wouldn't be right. So, he sits there and racks his slightly cloudy mind. Dean must have sensed his unspoken question, though, because he's suddenly speaking up with a surprise offering of his own. "Take a left and go four miles out. There's a cutoff on Old County Road where you can pull up and park."

With that, Dean's flipping on the radio—loud—and turning to avidly stare outside the passenger window, completely not looking the driver's way. A slow grin spreads on Sam's shocked face. Oh, he grins wide alright, because Dean's words are a _huge_ neon sign saying that Sam isn't the only one who'd thought things through while they were separated.

They're also a very big clue that Dean might have come to the bar that night with a clear notion in his head. So … Dean's earlier drinking wasn't about forgetting after all. It was more about gearing up for something, gearing up for _this_ and Sam can't help but grin even wider at this blatant realization. Even Dean's surly, "Are you gonna pull her out of park sometime today or what?" doesn't damper his mood.

The short car ride is silent, filled only by the slightly ironic lyrics to AC/DC's _Let Me Put My Love Into You._When Sam finds the cutoff Dean had specified, he steers the vehicle off the gravel road and into the grass. He even finds a row of tall, winter-withered bushes to park behind. Sam turns off the lights, but he leaves the car running. It's a little below forty degrees outside; they need the heater to stay warm. However, he does turn down the music, at least low enough to where its background noise and not just filler.

When he sits back, he nervously runs his hands back through his hair while blowing out a steadying breath. He does so, because he has no idea what to do and no idea what to say. His palms are sweating again and, yeah, his heart is back to pounding. He feels like he did all those years ago with Becky Burbage, his first date from junior high. Only, they'd been sitting in a movie theater and he had wanted to hold her hand. Not like now. Not like with Dean, who he wanted to do a whole hell of a lot more with. But really, how in the hell is he supposed to get this started?

Ever the big brother, Dean ends up taking the lead. Well, sort of, if you call his slightly irritated, "So, we gonna do this or what?" easing things along.

Suddenly annoyed—Dean has that effect on him—and highly curious, Sam can't help peevishly saying, "Just give me a— Wait, I wanna know what made you change your mind."

He watches Dean turn to him with a glower and, yeah, things are so not going the way he'd envisioned. "Gotta tell ya', Sam, you really suck at this."

Sam's aware, but he has some serious unanswered questions. Mustering up his courage, he wheedles, "Look, just— Before anything happens, I just need to know that you're not just … you know."

Dean's head is bowed as he tiredly rubs at his closed eyes, "Christ, you're worse than a friggin' chick." But then he sighs and looks up with a slightly disgruntled face. "Look, Sam, I don't know what that little brain of yours is thinking, but this ain't no pity f—" Dean cuts himself off as he rubs a nervous hand over his mouth. "Look," he grates, looking all kinds of uncomfortable. "It's just— All you need to know is I thought shit over and—"—A scrub of hands over a face and a groan—"Uh-uh. No way. I ain't saying this shit. Way too far out of my comfort zone here."

Sam's grinning again. He can't help it. Dean's unexpected, nervous shyness is all kinds of _cute_. "Yeah. You are, Dean," he teasingly says, brushing a hand back through his hair and trying not to laugh. "If you're thinking about getting in my pants, you so are."

"Sam," Dean all but whines. But then he sobers, latching on to certain words. "So I'll be doin' the—?"—A sharp shake of the head and a grumble—"Of course I'll be doin' the—!"—Yet another shake of the head and a tense glare—"Anyway, I'm not tellin' you shit. You're just gonna have to trust me on this one."

"Dean," Sam tries to wheedle again.

But Dean's not having any of it. "I mean it, Sam. Ain't gettin' a word."

Grin turning to a warm smile, Sam relents. "Alright, alright."—An inviting wave of a hand—"Just come here already."

Dean raises a brow and doesn't budge an inch. "Uh-uh, bitch. _You_ come here."

Sam's face is suddenly mirroring his brother's bad-tempered frown. "Dean."

"I'm not the girl here, _Sam_."

"Neither am I, _Dean_."

"Damn it, you said—!"

"I know what I said, but that doesn't mean—!"

"Alright, alright, alright! Just— Just come here already," Dean wearily waves Sam over. "Christ, shit's never been this complicated before."

Sighing, Sam gives up the fight, because he knows that Dean's already uncomfortable with the whole thing and he wants to try to put him at ease. You know, be the bigger man. So, he's sliding over, content with the fact that they're finally going to get their groove on, when Dean suddenly throws up a hand to stop him.

"Hold up," Dean says, looking like he just remembered something highly important.

"Seriously?" Yeah, Sam may be just the tiniest bit annoyed as he's left wondering if they're ever going to actually get down to business.

Dean just rolls his eyes while reaching under his seat. Pulling out the box holding all his precious cassette tapes, he grates, "Dude, keep it in your pants for a sec. Gotta set the mood. You know, the one you ruined?"

Sam sits back, a _whatever_ face in place, watching his brother pick through his stock. Sam raises a brow, however, as Dean picks a certain one up and pops it in. He barely manages to stifle a laugh when the play button is pushed and _Stranglehold_ starts playing nice and low in the background.

"What?" Dean asks all awkward and bad-tempered and, yeah, Sam can't help but think the look on the guy's face is really, really cute.

However, he can't help the dig. With a flash of teeth, Sam teases, "Really, Dean? You want to do this to The Noog?"

"Shut up," Dean says back, all adorable sourpuss. "Song kicks ass."

But, as the dirty beat really starts in, Dean's mellowed out and back to his usual arrogant self as his frown morphs into a sexy, smug grin. Lids at half-mast, he's turning, leaning against the side door, putting an arm on the back of the seat, and jutting his chin cockily at his brother that's two seconds away from becoming his future lover. "Alright, bitch. _Now_ you can bring that ass over here."

Sam just shakes his head, but he can't stop his grin from showing as his rear slides the rest of the way over the upholstery. Dean's already reaching across the space between them, slipping fingers through Sam's hair, cupping the back of his neck, drawing him in. However, he doesn't pull him in all the way and he stops Sam's attempts to move any further with the strong grip he suddenly has on the back of his jacket. Hovering there, staring into each other's eyes, too far away to feel each other's breath, but too close not to feel the other's warmth, Dean's talking again and Sam's really wishing his stupid brother would _just shut the hell up_.

"Bags 're back at Bobby's," Dean says, fingers still fisted in Sam's jacket. "Not much room in here either." Staring at Dean's oh so tempting mouth, Sam tries to shut him up with his mind. _Jesus, stop talking already._ _What does any of it matter anyway?_ "So…" he watches Dean's lips say and then, yeah, something finally clicks into place.

_Fuck. No condoms, no lube, and no room means… Shit._

Sam can't help but think that Dean didn't account for everything in his little master plan. He's a little disappointed, but then again he's not. Dean's actually wanting, like _seriously_ wanting him and Sam's left wondering when the hell all this happened. Was it just recently? Or had Dean been repressing things for years? Did it really even matter? In that moment, Sam thinks no, because he's got an answer for their current predicament and he's eagerly trying to lean forward to voice it. "Take what I can get."

"That so?" he hears Dean comment—tone breathy, almost shaky. They're on the cusp of doing something so incredibly wrong, but, in reality, to a small, hardly sane part of Sam, it's also what makes it so incredibly hot. Besides, he's wanting to get hot and nasty with his big brother; Sam already knows he's a few shades fucked-up.

Holding him there, Dean's back to talking again, but Sam can already hear that whatever reservations he'd had are steadily evaporating by that low, needy tone.

"So wrong."

"Know."

"_Fuck_."

"_Shut up_."

Sam's suddenly, roughly pushed forward by the hand wrapped in the back of his coat and Dean's mouth is on him, pressing, rolling, catching Sam's bottom lip and sucking hard. The touch is feverish and hurried, makes the blood from Sam's brain go straight to his dick. Fuck. He's finally kissing Dean after all these damn years and it's more than good. There's liquid fire in his veins and what feels like a dormant volcano awakening in his pants. Jesus, they're just getting started and Dean's already got him so hot and hungry.

Dean's hand is back strongly cupping the back of his head, frantically turning him this way and that as they continue to press against, nip, and blindly suck on each other's mouths. Sam doesn't even know what the hell his own hands are doing. All he's got time for is Dean's soft, perfect mouth. And—finally!—he's feeling his brother's tongue forcing its way between the crease of his lips.

Dean's not asking permission. He's taking what he wants and that right there makes Sam so rock fucking hard that if he wanted to, he could cut and shape diamonds with his dick. Sam moans. He actually fucking moans, because Dean's already got him so ready that his wicked desire has become a constant buzzing in his ears.

Its saying, "_God, yes_," and "_Want him so bad_," and "_Need his hand on my dick right the fuck now."_

And so Sam's brain functions enough under Dean's hungry assault to reach up and pull his brother's hand from the back of his neck. He's gruffly sliding it down his chest and maliciously shoving it against the tented front of his jeans. Sam groans and bucks up into the touch as Dean squeezes down on his covered bulge. Dean's touch is delicious and Sam can't get enough. Unfortunately, Dean's back to talking again, but at least he's doing it against his lips. So, in hindsight, Sam's forgiving.

"Christ, you're hard."

"No, shit," Sam growls back.

Dean's response is to move Sam's hand from his side—oh, that's where it is—and push it down onto the front of his own jeans.

"Pot. kettle," Sam pants heavily between another kiss and its Dean's turn to growl.

"Never said I wasn't."

Dean's making Sam grip his covered, blood-heavy dick, hard, like his baby brother freaking owns it. The kinky action is flipping Sam's switches, making him crave even more, because they're licking deep into each other's mouths—moaning and groaning—all the while squeezing and rubbing each other off through their pants. It's the hottest damn thing ever to Sam. …But it's not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Dean," he groans and his brother must pick up on his want because he's pulling back and shakily saying all hoarse and breathy, "Yeah, just— Oh, fuck yeah."

With that, belts are undone, buttons are popped, and zippers are yanked down with haste. As their lips crash back together, tongues exploring every corner of their mouths, Sam and Dean's hands are shoving their way inside each other's opened pants, impatiently mapping out every inch of their sensitive, leaking cocks. They roughly squeeze and stroke hard flesh as their hips feverishly grind up into each sinful touch. Its immoral pleasure beyond measure.

But given an inch, Sam's wanting a mile. He needs more contact, needs more skin on skin, needs to feel Dean wrapped all around him. So, he moves to do something about it. Mouths still attached, he uses his free hand to twist his fingers in the front of Dean's shirt. He's pulling him down on top of him as he leans back on the seat.

Dean seems to like the idea, because, in between frantic kisses, he's already pushing the tops of his underwear and jeans further down his hips. Sam starts doing the same to his own clothes all the while lifting his hips and nipping at Dean's lips. Holy mother of god, it's so wrong, so completely fucked-up, but the moment Dean's hard cock presses down and slides against his own, Sam's reaching behind him, grabbing handfuls of Dean's luscious ass and pulling him even harder against him. He's continuously rolling his hips up and down against him and then side to side, taking great pleasure in rubbing his dick all over Dean's thighs, stomach, and stiff, aching cock. But their pushed down jeans are becoming a hindrance. Dean seems to agree, because he's opening his mouth again.

"All the way off damn it. All the way off," Dean growls, before leaning back. Sam's already kicking off his shoes. He's next kicking off his jeans as Dean sits back to do the same. Funnily enough, the shirts, jackets, and socks manage to remain. They don't really have time for that, because they're already pressing back together like they were always one body, one soul.

Sam's got one foot on the floorboard and his other in the air, because Dean's got a hand on the back of that knee, pushing it up and against the back of the seat. No longer hindered by confining clothing around their legs, they're rutting against each other like wild animals in heat. The Impala's windows are fogged and the frame's even rocking from the bruising force Dean's using to roll and buck his lower body against Sam's. And Sam's loving it, because he can almost imagine that Dean's inside him, spreading him wide, like he's being rammed into, hard, with every loud, racing heartbeat between them.

"So fuckin' hard for you, baby boy," Dean's growling into the sweat-laced skin of his neck. Yeah, Dean's a talker. Sam's already noticed that. But he's not complaining as Dean enthusiastically sucks a bruise on his throat. Besides, the use of that particular pet name does so many right-wrong things to Sam that his dick twitches and he can't wait to hear it again. After another hard suck of his pulse point, Sam hears Dean add as shaky as he currently feels, "Wanna know what the inside of your ass feels like wrapped around my dick."

Sam can only groan, because—holy shit—he definitely wants to hear more if Dean's going to talk dirty to him like that. Vaguely, he knows that Dean's probably partly just doing it to hype them both up since the actual act of sex isn't in their cards that night, but Sam doesn't care. His brother's words are bringing him so close to the edge that he can almost taste euphoria on the tip of his tongue. And an intuitive Dean just keeps right on lighting his wick and Sam continues to enjoy the burn.

"Make me feel so fuckin' dirty, Sam. Always have."—A hard, circular grind—"Make me wanna do some seriously messed up shit."—An upward slide of hips—"Wanna lick you,"—A downward drag—"Suck you,"—A side to side motion—"Make you sit on my dick and just let you ride."

"Shit! …_Dean_," Sam moans, but his brother's not done. Not by a long shot. Crazed with lust, Dean's dark desires are pouring off his tongue like poisonous honey and Sam's more than happy to lap it all up.

"Would you ride me, Sammy? Would you sit back, spread those legs, stroke your dick, and let me watch you just take my cock?" Sam knows Dean must be imagining said hot ass scenario, because his brother's body's just shuddering around him and the next time he speaks, Dean's voice is trembling, deathly low and all kinds of dangerous. "Wanna come _inside_ you damn it... _Make_ you _take_it. God, wanna fill you up so much if you were a chick you'd be having my friggin' _kid_."

_Jesus Chri—!_ Sam thinks, brokenly, because that's it. _Game over_. Sam Winchester is _done_. He has _left_ the goddamn _building_. "Ha—Uhnnnnn!" he pants and grunts loud and shaky, because his taut form is sporadically jerking against and desperately clinging to Dean's frantically rocking body as Sam spills wet and warm between them.

"Fuck yeah," Dean pants, body rocking, never slowing his brutal pace, "So fuckin' hot, baby boy. Fuckin' come all over my fuckin' dick."

Sam's relishing the wet slippery slide of his pulsing cock against his brother's length as he continues to shoot a healthy load all over their dicks and stomachs. Before Sam's even finished spilling his last spurt, Dean's already rutting up against him one last time, before tensing around him, and choking out a feverish curse.

[xx]

As the sun steadily rises in the sky and birds chirp a happy song in the trees, three individuals silently sit around a worn kitchen table. The bearded man looks well rested while the two younger males look disheveled, bruised, and highly exhausted.

"Should I even ask?" Bobby Singer gruffly questions while looking over the two Winchester brothers who have become something like sons to him over the years.

He watches the older brother set elbows on the counter, almost shamefully dropping his face into his hands as the younger one continues to guiltily stare a hole into the table. Bobby's not stupid. He can make a good enough educated guess by the state of them—sweet baby Jesus, yep, those are what the young'uns are calling hickies these days—and the fact that they've had a hell of a time actually looking him in the eye since he'd come up on them just sitting there in his kitchen. But if there's one thing he knows about these two particular brothers, it's that there ain't no Sam without Dean and no Dean without Sam.

Wrong or not, it's just the way things are. Messed up? Yeah, it's lighting up Bobby's _what-the-fuck_ meter all kinds of ways. But he's just glad that after two weeks of Sam's stewing that their reunion last night didn't end with them coming to blows.

"Well, whatever," Bobby says, finally putting an end to the tense situation. With a causal tone, he adds, behind his raised cup of brew, "So, there's a poltergeist three states over wrecking havoc on a pastor's family. Came off the wire last night while you two were … indisposed."

And just like that, things are back on track, because they're both looking up and Dean's nodding, saying, "Awesome. We'll head out that way after a shower and a stop off for some gas and some food."

Bobby knows it's gonna take him some time to get used to these boys' new '_relationship'_ and all, but then again, Sam and Dean Winchester have always been the most whiney bunch of girls he's ever known…

"Dude, dibs on first shower. Your ass can start loading up the car."

"Um, no. Besides, why do you always have to go first?"

"Hello? Older brother?"

"Ok, that cards old and way over used, Dean."

"Not my fault I came out first, bitch."

"Sometimes I think you shouldn't have come out at all. Jerk."

"You wound me, Sam. You wound me."

_Case in point_, Bobby thinks as he grouchily says, "I'm gonna wound you both if you two don't hush up and get your asses in gear."

Yep. Everything's as it should be. The day's just right as rain. 

~Fin


End file.
